


Hit the Ground

by versaillesatnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bottom Sam, Dean-Centric, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Self-Destruction, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaillesatnight/pseuds/versaillesatnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam got out of the car, dropped at the bus stop that’d take him west, Dean had grabbed his wrist.<br/>“Sam,“<br/>The sun was beating down on them, and Dean thought that Sam looked so beautiful with sweat dripping off his bangs. Dean ached in a queasy, lurching wave to reach out, work his hands through Sam’s hair, and push it off his sunburnt face.<br/>“Yeah?” Sam said, and god help him, Dean half convinced himself Sam wanted him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Okay So. Dean has always been somewhat of a mystery to me--it's hard for my to get into his head and really understand his motivations. I love him. Totally. But what characterizes Dean to me is contradiction and self-destruction and loving Sam a whole lot. Stanford is one of the weirdest time periods for me. This is what I came up with when I tried to sort of make sense of it. It's pretty much unbetaed which like...no surprise there if you've reading anything else I wrote. I have some more explicit note tags at the bottom which you may want to read if you are concerned about triggers or here specifically for bottom!sam.  
> OTHERWISE the title is from "Peach" by the Front Bottoms but what I read before I got inspired to write this was "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde. Okay haha I hope you enjoy!!

The light is fading from the sun touched sky, the last stain of red bleeding out into night.

Dean downs another drink, something still strong enough to burn his throat on the way down.

"You want to slow down, kid?" The girl behind the counter asks, silver threaded eyebrow raised.

"No thanks," Dean replies, drags a hand across his mouth, flits his eyes across the rest of the bar--girl looks at him like she's worried the night will end in her calling security. Probably no more luck on that end.

Instead, Dean eyes up a group of kids about his age fucking around at the pool tables.

Kids about college aged.

Dean heaves himself off the stool, heads over with a clumsy gait that's not all affected.

"Hey," he says, slur coming easy; confidence, too. He wasn't worried about these guys. Didn't have to be at the top of his game.

The guys eye him, one leaning over to whisper in his buddies’ ear.

“Hey,” one replies, eyeing Dean up and down. Dean smiles, wide and fake, “You up for a game?”

“We’re just kind of fucking around.“

“I get it,” Dean says, raises his hands in concession, “Want the new guy to buy his way—that’s fine by me, fellas. How’s fifty, to start?”

The guy nearest the pool table nods, a little too eager, in too much of a shithole to have much money. Dean feels guilty, two games later, when he suggests they double up and the guy leaps at the opportunity.

Six hundred bucks altogether, that’s a lot to lose.

Dean sinks a ball in the corner pocket, reaches to collect his money, ignoring the dull pang telling him that these kids probably aren’t going to college under daddy’s paycheck, are struggling just like—

“What the fuck?” The guy he’s playing against spits, “Was this some kind of game?”

“Sorry, man,” Dean says, shrugs, “You can’t help looking like the biggest sucker in this place.”

“Right,” the guy says, nods, seems pretty worked up so Dean’s surprised when he makes his way out of the bar, friends filing out behind him.

Dean grabs another drink, six hundred dollars safely tucked into his wallet. If he’s not feeling better, at least he knows he’s going to be able to eat and drink and sleep comfortably for another week or two.

He flirts with an older woman at the other end of the bar for about half an hour, downing drinks in quick succession as she moves her hand from his upper arm to his thigh.

Dean doesn’t know how but he untangles himself, makes his way to the exit. He’s fumbling with the keys when a fist hits him from the side.

Dean tries to turn, tries to hit back, but someone from another side kicks his legs out from under him.

Dean hits the ground hard. Someone’s on him in an instant, slamming a fist into his jaw, mouth, soft underside of his throat in quick succession. Dean feels his lip split on the second punch, something crack in his mouth and he tastes blood.

Someone kicks him in the stomach. Dean coughs out some of the blood and spit collecting in his mouth.

“Grab his wallet,” a voice above him says.

Dean’s hazily, painful grateful he drank so much. This could be worse.

The guy on his stomach roughly shoves his hands in his pockets, kneeing him in the groin as he finds Dean’s wallet in his back pocket.

“Take it all,” a voice says, and a moment later the wallet is tossed back onto Dean’s chest.

The guy gets off him, he gets one more kick in the stomach and as the guys around him disperse.

Dean tries to roll over, groans.

“Hey,” someone says, “Sorry, man. You can’t help being the stupidest motherfucker in this place.”

Dean lays on the ground for a while after they leave, curled on his side, trying to work up the will to get himself to the Impala.

When he finally manages it, his body rebels against being upright. He grunts as he drags himself to the door, gets in the backseat, has enough presence of mind to lock the door behind him as he tries to get his beaten body comfortable in the tight space.

He’s furious about the money he’s lost; that a bunch of fucking college kids got the jump on him. He hates that he’s bleeding on his baby’s seats.

Still, even plastered and beaten and fucking exhausted, the thought hammers into his mind, right until the moment he passes out _Sam’s been gone for two months._

\---

Dean called, sometimes. A lot. But he’d figured out Sam’s class schedule the first time Sam told him about it, so he makes sure he mostly calls when Sam can’t answers.

He likes to leave voicemails, likes saying whatever he would’ve said to Sam if he were napping in the passenger seat. Stuff he doesn’t want to say to Sam over the fuzzy connection of the phone line.

When they do connect, every once and awhile, Sam sounds good. He keeps insisting Dean come visit, keeps telling Dean that, no, he still hasn’t gone to any parties.

It sounds fucking lame to Dean, and Dean tells him that, and Sam’s tinny laugh will filter over and Dean will feel this weird twist of joy and absolute desperation, words clawing up his throat that will beg Sam to come back.

Dean tries not to let it get to that. Instead, he leaves voicemails.

The night after he gets the shit kicked out of him, he calls Sam as he passes the state line into Arkansas. He checks the clock, and Sam’s in his British Literature course, so Dean dials and listens to the answering machine.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, “Sorry I didn’t call you last night. Things got a little crazy.

Dean’s got the windows of the car down, he’s low on gas and he doesn’t want to waste it on air-conditioning and it’s hot as shit outside.

“I’m in Arkansas. Sweating my fucking ass off. Dad and me are working a case—something with witches. Fucking witches, man. Anyway. I’ll see you soon. Bye, Sammy.”

Dean hangs up with a click, tosses the phone into the passenger seat.

In truth, dad split about two weeks after Sam. He told Dean he had to go meet with a contact, and then he’d called and told Dean that he wanted him to work on a hunt a few states over.

They meet up sometimes, work a case, but in the two months since Sam’s departure, Dean doesn’t think they’ve spent more than eight full days together.

Dean doesn't know how he feels about it, tries not to focus on it too much. Every time they were together, Dean didn’t know what to say. The silence between was broken by attempts at old jokes that Sam had a part of, gaping spaces filled with guilt and blame to go around.

Dean loves his dad, but he’s kind of glad he took off. He’s kind of lonely and fucking pissed about it, too, but he knows that if dad had stuck around, they would’ve just fought each other until the split between them was ugly and rotting. A limb Dean would have to saw off.

At least like this, they can be around each other. Dean figures it’ll get better—he’ll stop holding his dad responsible for the loss, dad will stop blaming Dean for not holding on tighter.

Anyway, Dean doesn’t like to think about it too much.

The radio in the impala, though, needs to be fixed or something because it hasn’t played anything for four hundred miles.

Dean hates sitting in silence, hates the heat, and so the windows rolled down all the way as he does eighty-five creates a whipping roar that helps to keep him focused.

He looks at the scenery; tries to find something to look at in the mountains that Sam would probably actually find fucking interesting or something.

But he’s fucking hot, and he has to slow on the curves the road starts to take. The sun beats down on him, and sweat beads down his cheek into the cut on his lip.

Dean swears, picks up speed, takes the bend in the road without hitting the brakes.

\---

The witches aren’t a big deal. A couple of middle aged women who thought they were casting blessings. A couple of wrong runes, some mispronounced words, nothing Dean couldn’t handle in a long afternoon.

He’s still exhausted by the end of it. It’d taken careful coaxing and hours of pouring over the spells that they could’ve done wrong. The women had been nice to him, apologetic and embarrassed, they’d brought him tea and sandwiches as he worked, chatting pleasantly, which just made Dean feel tired.

Afterward, he goes back to his motel room, buys some takeout, and settles in for the night.

He calls John at nine, but gets no response, and he’s watching some shitty true crime documentary when he dully realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going to go.

After the incident at the bar, he was low on cash. Too low. And the motel room was a fucking shithole, but it was a shithole Dean had to shell twenty bucks a night out on.  

Dean figures he’ll just sign up for a new credit card. It doesn’t worry him too much—he’s made it on less before, back when he was making it for two.

Dean tries not to think about what he’s going to do with the money, where he’s going to go with it. Used to be, Dean would tail dad’s truck in the impala, Sam in the passenger seat dozing or being a fucking brat. Dean always had a talent in pissing Sam off. He’d look over at Dean, purse his lips, and sometimes he’d break out into a smile, stupid dimples and everything, and Dean would think that normal lives were fucking without.

The motel room is disgusting and it smells like stale cigarettes. Dean could usually afford better, but he’d been too tired, had just pulled off at the first place he saw.

Dean looks at the clock. It’s only ten thirty but Dean toes off his shoes anyways. He doesn’t undress any more than that, lies on the top of the comforter and tries to get some sleep.

About an hour into his tossing and turning, Dean realizes he forgot the gun under his pillow. He feels the loss of it suddenly, jarringly, as he slides an arm under the pillow trying to get comfortable.

But he’s so tired. And it’s not like anyone else would even stay in a place like this. Dean blinks in the darkness of the room, makes out the shape of his duffle near the door. Realizes then that he didn’t salt the frame, either.

He doesn’t get up. The weight of habit eats at him, but no more than anything else that’s keeping him up. He falls asleep around two in the morning. He dreams about Sam, still on the edge of fifteen and worshipful and happy. It’s winter, a Christmas he and Sam never had in a fire-lit room with dad’s voice echoing in from the kitchen. Sam’s opening his present, and he’s whispering _I love it, Dean—How did you?_ Sam’s fucking glowing, and he leans over and presses his smiling, sweet lips to Dean’s.

Dean dreams of a night that did happen. One time, a werewolf mauled Sam. He was barely fourteen and he’d lain bleeding out in Dean’s frantic arms while he prayed for the ambulance to arrive. In the dream, the sirens are just echoing in Dean’s ears when Sam goes limp in his arms.

After that, Dean dreams of nothing at all.

\---

Dean decides a week later, after days spent holed up in the same motel, bringing back the same two girls to fuck, that he’s going to head west; figures he’ll escape the last of the summer heat, get somewhere temperate and rainy and maybe find something to do.

He think’s he’s in Colorado, but he’s not sure. He hasn’t slept for long hours, spent them behind the wheel instead. If he pulls over, he’s going to have to deal with the fact that his phone hasn’t rung, not once, in nine days.

John had texted him a “good,” after Dean had left a voicemail detailing the case with the witches.

Sam had been silent for almost two weeks.

Dean likes to call, though. Liked to call. For two months, he and Sam had kept up a kind of dialogue that way. It wasn’t good, it didn’t make Dean feel less bitter and broken up about it, but it was something.

Dean would leave a message; Sam would call as he walked back to his dorm. They’d talk for about a minute, before Sam had to go, and Dean would leave another voicemail after getting trashed and then he’d wake up to a text from Sam _—Just making sure you’re alive. Take some ibuprofen._

The cycle would repeat.

Dean wonders when the change came. Maybe Sam got bored with it, maybe Sam got busy. Maybe Sam was just exhausted by Dean’s pathetic voicemails and he’d decided to go cold turkey, help them both sand down the jagged edges of the break.

Sam did stuff like that. He’d tell Dean it was “for the greater good,” or at least it boiled down to that and Dean was left with a silent telephone sitting on the passenger seat.

Dean’s been going for twenty hours straight when the phone buzzes.

Dean slows the car to a stop a few miles later, angling it off the side of the dark, two-lane road. Dean figures there aren’t many people heading down this stretch of highway this time of night. Nothing to worry about.

It’s a text from Sam. A cool wash of something floods Dean’s tired veins as he opens the message.

_Been two rough fucking weeks. Call you later. Miss you._

Dean tosses the phone face down in the seat again. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know where Sam gets off, just throwing shit like that out.

Dean doesn’t reply, maneuvers back onto the road.

The road’s dark and empty, not a streetlight for a hundred miles, and Dean flips his brights on. The last thing he needs is to careen off the road because of a fucking deer or a fucking turn his dumb ass didn’t see coming.

Dean passes a sign that tells him he’s leaving Arizona, heading into Nevada.

California, Dean thinks, is just past that.

Dean was headed that way, anyway. It wasn’t about Sam. The south was just too fucking hot during the summer, and the northeast was crowded and small.

 Dean makes it through Nevada in record time, and checks the sign coming into California for Palo Alto.

There’s a break in the highway around dawn, a smaller road breaking off down S. Real that has a small Stanford logo printed under it.

Dean shifts the car down that way, eyes the phone in the passenger seat as he makes the turn.

Then he snaps his eyes back to the window. He can feel how tired he’s getting, so he makes sure he keeps his eyes on the road.

\---

Stanford has a shitty parking situation. Dean circles the campus for twenty minutes looking for one. Watches the kids with backpacks turn to look at his car, takes in the red-roofed buildings and expensive landscaping.

He keeps seeing tall kids with stupid-long hair, slows to try to make them out. None of them are Sam, and Dean feels more like turning tail every minute.

Eventually, he curses and heads back to the road. He tells himself it was a stupid idea, until he sees a motel just a mile down the road, concrete parking lot utterly deserted.

Dean parks, gets a room key from a man at the front desk, and starts walking.

It’s hotter than hell. Dean doesn’t know what he was thinking, coming down here. Not even the excuse of good weather. Just brutal heat and what’s sure to be a punishing encounter with Sam and Dean strips off his flannel, ties it around his waist.

He feels like a bigger fucking idiot on campus like that than he did in his car. He finds himself sitting awkwardly on a bench, phone clasped in his sweaty hand.

He thinks Sam’s just getting out of biology. He knows Sam is just getting out of biology.

If he calls, though, and Sam doesn’t pick up, Dean doesn’t think he’s going to be able to do it again. Sam could be having lunch with a cute girl from class, not even hear it ring, and Dean knows he’d take that as an excuse to bolt.

Dean calls anyway. He goes to voicemail in two rings.

Dean presses the end call button with a quick, hard movement. He shoves the phone in his back pocket, heads back to the motel.

He hasn’t even gone in his room, goes back in to shove the key back over the desk and tries to negotiate a refund.

The guy doesn’t say much, just flat out refuses and Dean just barely keeps himself from leaping the desk and taking some cash for himself.

He gets back in the car, and on the way back through town, sees a bar. He figures it can’t hurt to blow off some steam.

Some five drinks and one hour later, Dean’s phone is ringing in his pocket. He’s not drunk enough to pretend not to notice it. He pulls it out, doesn’t need to check the caller ID. He knows, head painfully clear, that picking up can’t lead to anything good. This whole fucking trip couldn’t lead to anything good.

Dean flips the phone open, “Dean?” Sam’s voice crackles from the other end, “Hey, Sam,” Dean says, “You wouldn’t believe where I am.”

“You get out of Arkansas yet?”

“Yeah, way out of Arkansas.”

“Where are you?”

Dean blinks at the room around him. On the side of the bar nearest the bathrooms, a cute brunette is sitting alone. She’s made eye contact with Dean all night, dark skin of her throat illuminated by the green neon above her.

Thing is, Dean is aware of the choices he makes. He’s always fucking conscious. It always came back to Sam. He was choosing Sam, or he was punishing Sam. He wonders sometimes, if he turned the car just a little, into the semi coming up the other end of a two-way highway—he wonders when Sam would hear the news. 

There’s quiet on the other end of the line, and Dean swallows hard, wonders what this would qualify as, “Want to come pick me up? I’m drunk.”

\---

“So this is my room,” Sam says, gesturing to a space smaller than the shitty motel rooms they used to stay in.

It doesn’t feel very Sam-like to Dean. Which is a bizarre thing for him to think, he guesses, but he and Sam had talked about having their own rooms for years.

Until Sam was fifteen, they’d shared a bed at the motels. Sam wasn’t a calm sleeper, thrashed and kicked Dean all night long, mumbled under his breath.

Dean didn’t mind it too much, liked the warm, solid weight of Sam breathing next to him every evening. Sam, though, would grouse every time dad hung around the motel for too long, when they didn’t have the chance to spread out to his bed once he’d left on a hunt.

Dean wasn’t upset by it. He got it. He’d listen to Sam bitch about it quietly once John started snoring.

Dean sort of had this game where he’d say to Sam “bet if you had a room you’d make it too fucking nerdy for you to even stay in,” or something like that, and Sam would go off describing how it would actually be.

He’d had a full bed, and a desk, and some books—“Hate to tell you this, Sammy, but you ain’t helping your case.”

Sam would usually include Dean in it. Expand the fantasy to a house, tell Dean his room was right down the hall—“What would you have?”

“God, I don’t know, Sam. Are we sharing a bathroom?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Candles, air freshner.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sam’s room at Stanford has a few books—from Dean’s quick scan they look like they’re mostly for classes. The walls are bare though, the blue, school mattress with only a sheet and a pillow look pretty sad in comparison to Sam’s roommate’s posters and matching comforter.

“It’s nice,” Dean says anyway, smiles at Sam encouragingly.

“Yeah, sure.”

Dean doesn’t know what else to say. It’s quiet for a little bit, uncomfortable. Dean looks at Sam, tries to tell if there’s any difference in the two months but Sam looks pretty much the same.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with seeing him. He wants to bring up how they used to talk about this, he wants to fucking hug Sam or something embarrassing like that, he wants to drag him outside, down the road, and into the car. And when Sam bitches about it, like he bitches about everything, Dean wants to force his mouth open with his tongue and shut him up. Dean wants tip the car over the median right after.

Dean feels sick with it. He clears his throat.

“How’re classes?”

“Pretty good.”

“You said something about the past couple weeks—“

“Oh, yeah. Not class-related.”

Dean lets a smile ease across his face, “Oh, Sammy, you been partying too hard?”

“Jesus, Dean. No. That’s not really been my college experience,” Sam laughs a little, shakes his head, and Dean feels some of the tension ease out of him. This, at least, he’s used to.

The alcohol in him helps to warm his veins, relax his limbs; forget how foreign this all feels to him, seeing Sam somewhere he’s completely unfamiliar with.

He sits on Sam’s bed. It’s fucking awful, just dropping his body down onto it is jarring.

“This is fucking awful,” he blurts, feels bad when he feels Sam’s face pull tight, “In a charming kind of way,” he says quickly.

Sam shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it, Dean, I’m not a big fan either.”

Dean feels drunk and stung by that—like Sam has any reason at all to talk like that, to think he could still talk like that to Dean after two and half of months of shitty voicemails, and ignored texts, and after leaving for this weird, ugly room anyway, “College not all you dreamed it be, Sammy?”

“Not exactly,” Sam says, and he’s looking at Dean intently. Dean’s not sure what he’s looking for but he can’t give it to him. He feels his eyebrows shoot up, smirks in something that feels like a sick victory.

“Guess it’s tougher when you don’t have someone to blame, huh?”

It’s not what Dean really thinks about Sam—not the _only_ thing Dean thinks about Sam—but Sam all but said it, that last fight with Dad. He confirmed it on the drive to bus stop, Dean silent, Sam refusing to turn from the window.

Sam doesn’t explode like Dean is half scared, half hoping he will. He stays pretty much in place, face unreadable, eyes trained on Dean.

“I never blamed you, Dean,” Sam says, “And you fucking know it.”

Sam isn’t angry as he approaches the bed, sits down next to Dean.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says finally, and Sam laughs, quiet and too close, “You never want to talk about anything.”

“Sure I do, Sammy,” Dean says, tries to rouse some defense; “I had a crazy case with some witches a few days ago. Fucking MILFS, let me tell you, there was one who,”

Dean casts a glance in Sam’s direction. Sam’s looking at his hands, curled in his lap. His dumb hair is too long—way longer than John would’ve ever allowed it to get—and Dean thinks, in a rush of anxiety, that he looks too thin.

 “Hey, Sammy,” he says, bends his head a little, “You okay?”

Sam heaves in a breath, and Dean realizes in a wave that Sam’s about to fucking cry, Jesus Christ.

“Sam?” Dean says, and he can tell that his voice sounds uncomfortable and a little panicked but he can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Sam past the age of eight cry. He can count on two fingers, actually. The kid didn’t even tear up when he got his arm broken in three places. Dean hadn’t realized anything was wrong till they were fifty miles out of town; then he’d had to convince his dad to turn around, get back near a hospital, and Sam had sat as silent and pale as he’d been the first fifty miles.

Dean was so proud of him—sick with himself for feeling proud that Sam could deal with pain—and he’d stolen a sharpie from the nurse’s desk and written “Bad Ass Motherfucker” on Sam’s cast while he fell asleep on their way back out of town.

It’s an embarrassing memory, something that reminds Dean of how pathetic he’s always been about Sam. He still reaches out, rubs a hand down Sam’s back.

Sam lurches forward, grabs onto to Dean with strong hands and pulls himself closer, shoves his face into the hollow between Dean’s neck and collarbone.

“Shit—Sam—“

“Fuck,” Sam says, voice pissed and shaky. He doesn’t move to get off Dean. The word comes out in a hot breath against Dean’s collarbone. Dean shivers.

Sam makes a noise against Dean’s skin, just another warm exhale. Dean feels himself tense up.

Sam kisses Dean all at once, from nose pressed against his neck to a quick movement and warm, wet mouth on Dean, slide of tongue against his lower lip. It’s a clumsy thing, and Dean’s body lights up hotter and faster than, than.

Dean’s honest with himself about this sometimes. When he really feels like he deserves it, he thinks about how Sam had looked at him with the glint of burning forests in his eyes ever since the spring he turned thirteen. Dean had drunk it in in guilty, desperate gulps.

Sam makes an ugly, gasping noise against Sam’s mouth, a dry sob and Dean’s hands are coming up to cup Sam’s face instinctually.

“Shh,” he says, and then he kisses Sam back, throws himself into the fire. He tells himself he’s drunk, but he’s sober enough to know better, he knows that this—this is going to be what burns down whatever shitty shelter he’s built for himself.

Sam’s hands are quick and greedy, like he’s not sure how long or how much he’s going to be able to touch. He tugs at Dean’s belt, and Dean works a hand to still him, helps Sammy out, undoes the buckle and the button in a smooth, practiced movement.

Dean’s cock is already hard and hot, pushing against his fly. Dean groans as Sam’s hand brushes against it.

Sam jerks a little bit at the sound, and Dean wants to laugh and kiss him on the forehead and spend all night touching just his face and fucking choke the sound out of him again.

Sam struggles a little more, pushes Dean’s boxers down so they’re pooled uncomfortably on his thighs with his jeans, then Sam gets a warm, big hand on Dean’s cock and Dean feels nothing but a hot twist of pleasure in his stomach.

Sam jacks Dean hard and fast—good, too good. It has Dean leaking, wet and stick, in just a few minutes and so out of his mind with it that it takes a catch of Sam’s nail on the underside of the sensitive head of his cock to snap him out of it.

Dean jerks, catches Sam’s eyes, dilated dark, pink, soft lips open as he heaves in air. Dean wants to fuck his mouth. Wants to work his way in and wreck it till its swollen and red and filled with Dean.

Sam’s cheeks are flushed, and Dean blinks and looks down and sees Sam’s boxers tented, cock poking out.

“Let me help, baby,” Dean says softly, barely registers it, and he places a hand over Sam’s on his cock, moves it aside. Pulls on the elastic of Sam’s boxers, gets him to lift up so Dean can get them off all the way, wants his boy to be comfortable, tosses them to the side.

Sam’s cock is huge and hard against his belly. Dean’s dick throbs.

“Can I suck you?” Dean asks, looks up at Sam as he moves down, watches as Sam nods jerkily, “Jesus, Dean.”

Dean licks his lips, suddenly dry, and takes Sam’s head into his mouth.

Dean’s never—he’s never done this before, but Sam’s cock, hot and heavy in his mouth makes Dean fucking _drool._

He tries to imitate what he likes. He goes down on Sam in shallow, steady bobs of his head. Sam moans above him, gets a hand in Dean’s hair—not pulling or shoving, but just fucking _petting_ Dean’s hair as Dean sucks him.

Dean’s mouth is slicking Sam’s cock up; makes Dean suck him deeper easier. He wants to take Sam’s cock deeper, goes down on him till it hits the back of his throat and Sam stutters a little above him. He stays there for a moment; breathing in the sharp, clean smell of Sam all around him. He has trouble breathing, though, throat working around Sam’s cock uncomfortably, so he pulls back. He works his tongue against the underside of Sam’s cock. Sam breathes in sharply, hand tightening in Dean’s hair, pulling a little. Dean pulls off Sam’s cock, tight ring of his mouth coming off the head with a soft pop.

He looks up at Sam from under his lashes. Sam is looking right down at him, eyes wide and dark.  
“What do you want, Sam?” Dean asks, feels something heady shoot to his cock as he registers his voice a little rougher.

Sam shakes his head slowly, like he’s too turned on to even speak. Dean wants to see him come.

“You need to tell me if this okay, Sammy,” Dean says, leaning down to lick at the head of Sam’s cock. He gets a good rhythm going again, can taste Sam leaking into his mouth as he drags his mouth down the length of him.

Sam’s hands are still in his hair, and his grip is almost painful as Dean slides a hand down to tug a Sam’s balls, looks up through his lashes again as he rubs a dry finger against Sam’s hole.

Sam’s eyes slam shut and Dean almost pulls back but Sam’s nodding quickly, breathing out “Yes, oh my god, yeah,”

Sam’s cock is so fucking sloppy with spit and pre come. Dean is drooling with it, collects some of the wetness and coats his finger in it, circles and presses against Sam’s hole.

Sam is so fucking tense above him with the effort of not fucking up into Dean’s mouth or back onto his finger. He whimpers a little as Dean works the digit in, just the tip of his finger fucking into Sam, curving a little to try and find his sweet spot.

Sam fucking keens, jerks his hips back uncontrollably above him, and Dean figures he did something right.

He keeps massaging his finger against that spot, sucking Sam in the same rhythm. The noises Sam’s making are the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard, has him grinding his aching cock into the sheets.

Dean gets into a rhythm, everything hot and wet and Sam all around him and he’s so hard that just thrusting against sheets has him so close to the edge but not before Sammy—Sam comes first, Dean’s going to be fucking sure of that. He can’t hold off much longer himself, so he bends his little finger, rubs at the skin between Sam’s balls and his hole, crooks the finger up Sam’s ass.

Sam fucking loses it. Trembles all around Dean, his hips stuttering into his mouth, back on the finger fucking him. He groans, shoots thick and hot into Dean’s mouth and Dean swallows it, tries to suck Sam through it but the sounds he’s making and the taste of him and knowledge that he just made Sammy _come_ has him pulling off Sam’s cock with a gasp, thrusting into the sheets one more time, and coming in thick pulses into the sheets, onto Sam’s leg, so hard and pleasurable that he’s dizzy with it.

Sam’s limp and warm beneath him. Once Dean’s done coming, he stretches out, wraps himself around Sam, keeps a steadying around his chest, makes sure he doesn’t fall from the small bed.

“You good, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, presses back against Dean, “Really good.”

 Sam sounds tired. Makes sense, kid was a goddamn champ, picking Dean’s drunk ass up and crying himself out and—and—well.

“You tired?”

“Yeah.”

Dean kisses the sweaty dip of Sam’s neck, “Let’s sleep.”

“You’re staying,” Sam says, and Dean nods against his back. Sam’s asleep in a few minutes, breathing heavily against Dean’s back.

Dean is glad he’s sleeping. He’s pissed that Sam’s left him up alone. He wants to stay. He wants to stay up all night with Sam and ask him what this means but as he blinks in the darkness, his breath comes quicker and quicker, out of sync with the deep sounds of Sam sleeping. 

When Sam got out of the car, dropped at the bus stop that’d take him west, Dean had grabbed his wrist.  
“Sam,“

The sun was beating down on them, and Dean thought that Sam looked so beautiful with sweat dripping off his bangs. Dean ached in a queasy, lurching wave to reach out, work his hands through Sam’s hair, and push it off his sunburnt face.

“Yeah?” Sam said, and god help him, Dean half convinced himself Sam wanted him to.

The bus stop was empty, and Dean wondered if Sam would have to ride alone all the way to California.

“You could come with me,” Sam said then, and Dean had breathed in the dry, suffocating heat all around him.

“Don’t want to, Sam,” Dean had said and Sam’s face had fallen and Dean felt a twist of satisfaction, and sharp pang of guilt. Summer weather always made him fucking nauseous.

“Okay,” Sam said, “Okay.”

He pulled his wrist gently from Dean’s grasp. Dean hadn’t said anything else. He’d pulled away before the bus arrived. He drove two miles the other way, pulled into a Walmart parking lot, and he’d slammed his fists into the dashboard until he’d stopped fucking crying.

Dean uncurls his arm from where it’s gone to sleep around Sam’s frame. He stares at the ceiling. He tells himself this is for Sam’s own good.

Outside the window, the red of the sun starts to eat into the last moments of the short, summer night.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/Notes: Dean has some suicidal, self destructive thoughts throughout. Bottom!Sam isn't technically bottom!sam, it's just fingering but I figured it's better to tag it then to not. If you are here for Sam to get dicked by Dean I totally understand and apologize and encourage you to not read this because you will be disappointed. 
> 
> If I've missed anything or you're bothered by anything I haven't tagged or see like a glaring error let me know!


End file.
